


we'll take a cup of kindness yet

by Mira_Jade



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: . . . you're forever our princess, Alderaanian Traditions, Character Study, Developing Relationship, F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, In Memory of Carrie Fisher, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9164974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: For Han Solo, the date was nothing more than another blip on the calendar, another cold day spent fighting for the Rebellion on the icy wastes of Hoth. For the princess, however, the day was something more . . . something personal. In his own way, he understood the honor of her sharing it with him.Years later, the Day of Remembrances comes around again, this time following the loss of one of the Solo family's own.





	

_2 ABY_  
  
  
In his time, Han Solo had endured a cold planet or two, but the gods' forsaken wasteland that was Hoth took the deck on each and every one of them.  
  
_Makes sense_ , _I guess,_ he grimaced to pull on his gloves in preparation for the cold beyond the sanctuary of his ship. _Any Imperial with a_ _sparking_ _pair of brain cells_ _w_ _ould_ _think us to be anywhere but here._ _Nine hells,_ I'd _rather be anywhere but here._  
  
Anywhere _. . ._ ominously the word echoed, edging along the soft tissue and synapses of his brain to rouse that small, irksome voice of reason in the back of his mind. _Then why are you still here,_ _Solo_ _?_ _Why have you stuck around_ _as long as you have_ _?_ It was a pointed question; an uncomfortable question. That inner-voice may have saved his skin more than once over the years, speaking with instinct and intuition as it did . . . but that did not mean that he had to _lik_ e it. Han had no answer for the voice, at that – no answer worth giving conscious thought to, at any rate, and he blew out a frustrated breath from between his teeth, disliking the spiral his mind was taking.  
  
_You are a wanted man –_ _and it's_ _Jabba the Hutt_ _calling for your head_ _, no less_ _,_ the voice continued to badger him. _W_ _anted men_ _turn into_ _dead men –_ _you know this better than most_ _. Why, then_ _,_ _are you not -_  
  
\- and he was done listening. With a stern force of will, he shoved his irksome thoughts aside, determined to ignore them for a little while longer. Yet, even after two years of practice, he was still only marginally better at doing so – he didn't quite want to learn the hard way what would come from disregarding his higher reason completely, after all. Soon, his hard won pragmatism would win out. Yet, until that day came . . .  
  
Han made a face and pulled up his hood, knowing that the artificial climate of the newly founded Echo Base would be nowhere near what his human system considered comfortable. He didn't trust the techs to have taken care of the programing glitches in the time he had been away on his latest trade run, at that, and so, bundling up it was. Ignoring Chewie's soft growls of question – with his friend unerringly sounding like his _inner-voice_ more often than not as of late, he thumbed the release for the _Falcon's_ ramp, and disembarked . . . disembarked to find, with a short burst of pleased surprise, that the technicians _had_ been able to work out the kinks in the system while he was gone. The air upon his face, though a notch or two cooler than what he would usually prefer, was not the frigid kiss of winter he had first expected to feel. He reached up, and pulled down his hood in time to hear -  
  
“Han, you're back!”  
  
He turned – with a rise of feeling bubbling in his chest, one that he would have loudly scoffed at even just a year ago – at first dumbly expecting to see . . .  
  
. . . well, he reminded himself, it was foolish of him to expect anything otherwise. The Rebellion was a war being fought, plain and simple – no matter how the moral high ground may have wrapped their cause up in a pretty bow. _Sh_ _e_ did not have the time to watch the comings and goings of every pilot on base; the demands on her attention were already strenuous enough. Leia would seek him out eventually, he knew, if and when she could.  
  
Yet . . . _If she can group you in with_ _'_ _everyone_ _'_ , that same irksome voice of reason reared its ugly head again, _you are even more a fool to_ _linger -_ _to linger_ _and_ hope -  
  
\- and _that_ , Han forced his smile to hold, was enough of _that_. More than enough.  
  
But he did not have to hold the forced expression for long – it turned true enough when he caught the kid in a quick, welcoming embrace. Han ran a critical eye over the younger man, but Luke Skywalker seemed to be healthy and happy to all outward appearances. He was still in once piece, without any missing fingers or toes; he hadn't even singed his hair. There were times, as he practiced with that saber of his all the more often as of late, that Han had worried for him - not that he'd ever admit to that aloud, of course.  
  
“Hey, kid,” Han gave his own greeting. “Good to see you're still in one piece.” He couldn't help but needle with his words – out of the urge to tease more so than any true concern, of course.  
  
In answer, Luke only snorted as he turned to greet Chewie next. In answer, the Wookiee gave a happy grumble that echoed Han's unwitting smile. “You act as if the second you turn away we'll just fall apart without you,” Luke gave with a beleaguered sigh. He nonetheless lifted up both hands and wagged his fingers as if to prove that he still had them.  
  
“Ah, but wouldn't you?” Han could not help but drawl – after all, it was always fun goading the kid. He made it all too easy for him, at that. “I can't help it if people are always getting attached to me – apparently it's something about my rugged good looks and rakish charm.”  
  
“Of course that's it, Han.” Somehow, the predictability of Luke rolling his eyes had lost its childish petulance over the past two years; the wet behind the ears moisture farmer seemed to mature a bit more every time Han spoke to him. “I don't know how we ever got on without you.”  
  
. . . _w_ _e._  
  
Han felt a strange constricting in his chest at the thought – it was not a necessarily bad feeling, per se, and yet . . . He shook his head and told himself that that too meant nothing. Ignoring the mingled pleasure/pain of the sensation, he pushed on.  
  
“So,” Han started as casually as he could. “Where is her worshipfulness, anyway? I thought that she'd want to hear about the run herself, with her insisting that I be the one to take the assignment and all . . .”  
  
“Oh, Leia?” Luke's frown caused another twinge to form, one decidedly less than pleasant, so much so that Han had to fight to keep it from echoing in his expression. “She hasn't been seen today,” he admitted after a moment's pause. “General Rieekan said that she is taking a personal day; I haven't been able to get a hold of her to see how she's doing, so your guess is as good as mine.”  
  
Though his words may have been a study in nonchalance, Luke's voice was clouded with equal parts frustration and worry. His clear blue eyes narrowed, and he made a pursed line of his mouth before meeting his gaze with a shrug. “I suppose she's earned it, so I shouldn't pry – she's hardly taken a moment to breathe since the Death Star, you know? I can admit that I've been worried about her.” Even so, he fixed a sincere smile to conclude, “I'm sure she'll find you tomorrow, though. She always does.”  
  
“Yeah, of course.” Han shook off his own concern – which, in its own way, was more disturbing than any sort of understandable attraction on his part – and fought the urge he had to sigh. “There's no rush; the General can hear my report as well as she can.”  
  
“Sounds good,” Luke stepped back with a nod of his head. “I know you'll want to clean up and find your planetside legs again – we have an honest to goodness water system up and running, can you believe it? May as well make use of it while you can.”  
  
The base, Han distantly recalled, was built over a system of hot springs. The network of waterways was one of the few geothermal points they had been able to find on the rock of ice and misery that was Hoth, and the main reason they chose to build here in the first place. He cracked a true grin, recalling Luke's awestruck wonder for the rivers of Yavin IV before they had been forced to abandon the jungle base. The kid hadn't known how to swim before that; he'd never even felt _rain_ before that. Even the snow of Hoth had been a novelty to Luke, with the incomparable cold and the idea that so much water could freeze such as this. There were few things that made Han feel light and young in the galaxy, and most of them seemed to be centered in the fledgling Jedi from Tatooine. He shook his head, trying to clear his senses of his own unwitting fondness; in that too, his higher reason warned, there was a weakness waiting to turn a spot of his armor weak from rust.  
  
“You betcha,” Han nonetheless agreed, clapping Luke on the shoulder as he made to pass. “I'll catch up with you later.”  
  
“I look forward to it,” Luke returned the affection with a last smile, and then he was gone.  
  
After leaving Luke, Han made quick work of checking in with Rieekan and seeing about the unloading of the _Falcon_. When he was content that the hangar aides knew what they was doing with his ship, he did go about finding his assigned quarters and ferreting out the honest to goodness water 'freshers Luke had mentioned. After months of sonic cleaning for practicality's sake, the unexpected luxury of heated water was one he was determined to take full advantage of – and he was sure that many of the battle-weary souls on base agreed with him. The small tweak in the system was a calculated boost to morale, he could well recognize the move, but that didn't mean he would snub his nose at benefiting from it.  
  
Afterward, he turned down Chewie's invitation to meet Luke and raid the mess hall for supper – he was hungry, his noticeably rumbling stomach told him, but he was also strangely restless in his skin. He was jittery, even though he knew that he should be relaxing after a job well done. He tried to tell himself that such unease was a side-effect of the soldier's mantle he had somehow stumbled into – a constant state of battle readiness came with the commission, after all. Yet, after a lifetime of such . . . edge of his seat living, Han already well knew how to let such a sensation simmer in the background of his mind - he'd have gone crazy by now if he hadn't. His palms itched, and he clenched and unclenched his fists to relieve the sensation. He was twitchy with the want to move, almost as if something was goading him onwards, trying to lead him . . .  
  
\- _great_ , Han did not need his inner-voice to chide himself, he had been hanging out with the kid for far too long. The folksy Jedi mysticism he preached was rubbing off on him . . . it was bound to happen eventually, he supposed.  
  
So, Han found himself wandering. Much had been added to the base and since improved upon while he was away – impressively so, he could grudgingly admit. The icy, man-made tunnels dipped underneath the surface of the planet to make use of the more natural land-ways catacombing the underground below. Here, the climate systems did not have to work as hard away from the constant battering of the snowstorms, and the subterranean passages were kept relatively warm by the heat to be found the deeper they dug in the planet's crust. Hot rivers of foaming blue-green water coursed underneath the durasteel bridges he passed, and Han curiously followed one such pathway to an open icy chamber that too carried the clean, damp scent of water. Made curious by the natural landforms, he paused at the juncture, and then entered.  
  
He had not been expecting to find a place like this on Hoth: a large chamber with soaring stalagmite ceilings, crowned by the crystal blue sheen of ice from the belly of some massive glacier overhead. The ground was the pearlescent white stone of Hoth's principle bedrock, glittering with silvery veins of some ore he could not immediately identify. The flowing water passed through the gaping cavern in a winding river, pausing to feed still pools in the landscape. Beyond the reflection of the rock formations and ice, he could see down for meters. The incredibly pure water was an almost unnaturally bright shade of blue, touched by jets of emerald green and red-violet from the mineral deposits in the bubbling springs. They were dazzling to the eye next to all of the silver-white of the stone. It was, he thought, a beautiful place.  
  
Well, the planet had to have _something_ going for it, after all. Hoth had too many strikes against it otherwise.  
  
Han knelt down next to the waterside, for a moment content to look past his reflection and down into the depths – as far down as his human eyes could see, when . . .  
  
. . . a . . . _candle?_ . . . floated to him, he puzzled to notice. There, sure enough, bobbing on the surface of the water in a simple saucer of thin plasteel was an honest to goodness wax candle. A legitimate candle, at that – not one made of replicated wax with an artificial light-source. The little white sphere had a tiny wick, with a flickering flame slowly consuming it; its dancing tongue of yellow-gold was warm and inviting next to the cool tones of frost and shadow in the chamber. Han looked and saw more of the tiny vessels floating down the underground river from further upstream in the cavern. Wondering, he stood and walked through the massive arches of stone and ice to go further back, only to find, in the last niche he could think to check . . .  
  
“Leia?”  
  
His voice was a befuddled expression of sound, echoed and repeated back to him from the high vaults of the icy ceiling. For there, kneeling down by the underground river, was the princess – dressed simply in her white snowsuit, with her hair twisted into a loose design of braids down her back. Her hands were bare as she carefully set another saucer to float on the current, the same as she must have for all the others. Patiently waiting on the stone next to her, she had more of the candles ready to light; he briefly wondered how many she had already let loose on the water. She had been singing, he last processed - humming softly underneath her breath before he invaded the privacy of . . . whatever it was she was doing. Strangely, he wanted to hear the sound again; he did not want her to stop.  
  
Yet, his arrival broke the tranquility of the moment. Looking as a startled kybuck in the underbrush, she stood from her crouch by the water and turned see him standing behind her. Her dark eyes were wide with surprise before she recognized him and recovered herself. The silvery half-light cast shadows on her face, but, even so, he could see the tell-tale tracks of tears on her cheeks, no matter how silently they may have been shed. The sight drew him up short as he belatedly realized . . . he'd never seen her cry before. He'd only known strength from her; the strength of her convictions and determination and belief. He'd known her temper and humor, even her affection . . . but never had he been privy to her grief. Leia had always seemed too much of an immovable force to be touched by so mundane a thing as tears.  
  
Or, he readjusted the thought after a moment, that was the face she had long presented to the world. He could . . . he could understand that, in his own way . . . he could understand that better than most.  
  
Yet, for now . . . a personal day, Luke had said. And here he was intruding. Wishing that he had instead turned back the way he came instead of revealing his presence to her, he prepared to put his hands up and slowly turn around to give her privacy. He wouldn't disturb . . . whatever this was. He wasn't as rough around the edges as that.  
  
His intentions were one thing, but what he heard fall from his mouth instead was, “Are you okay, Princess?”  
  
Leia blinked at him as if she could not quite understand why he was there. After a heartbeat, she turned away from him and reached up to scrub the heel of her hand over her eyes. She took in a deep breath, and when she turned to meet his gaze again it was with a more familiar face. This, he knew how to better react to.  
  
“You're back,” she somehow managed to turn the statement into a greeting. “I take it that the run went well, then?”  
  
Han frowned, taken aback by the sudden change to her demeanor. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, no longer sure of his balance. “Yes,” he found himself answering out of rote. But no, _no_. That was not what he wanted to talk about. “I already gave my report to General Rieekan. I was told that you'd taken a . . . personal day. Which I can see that I am interrupting. I'm sorry for that.”  
  
He left a question open and waiting in his words. If she wanted to tell him, to share with him what she was doing, then she would. If not, he would respect her right to privacy and leave so that she could have the peace she so clearly sought. He would be lying to himself if he said that he did not prefer the first, however.  
  
Leia made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, and her eyes fell to where the candles floated on the current of the subterranean river. A shade passed over her expression, the shadow of some old sorrow, and he watched where she visibly drew in a breath to steady herself. Her hands made small fists when she clenched her fingers, but they were fists nonetheless.  
  
“Today is the Day of Remembrances,” she finally said, softly – so softly that he had to strain to hear her. “Or, at least, it would have been.”  
  
The Day of Remembrances . . . he frowned, but found no recognition sparking in his mind. Outside of the few galactic holidays, it was impossible to know every system's local customs and traditions, and he had to admit that he knew but few of hers. Was this . . .  
  
“An Alderaanian tradition,” Leia expanded, unerringly finishing his thought even before he spoke it aloud. Her voice was stronger then, growing all the more clear and collected as she spoke. “Growing up, this was always a special festival to me . . . and, last year I was shipside . . . I couldn't see it observed as I would have liked. Yet, this year . . .”  
  
He could infer the rest: this year she celebrated alone, away from her people, for the memory of a home that no longer was. In some ways, he could imagine this hitting her harder than the yearly memorial that was held for Alderaan's loss. There, she presided over the masses offering their respects, untouchable and ethereal as she carried the mourning of all her people on her shoulders. He had been vaguely uncomfortable during that year's memorial; he had been unnerved by the porcelain sheen of her public mask, wondering if and when she would ever let it crack. No matter that she hurt as much as they did, that day was for what remained of Alderaan's citizens, and she was still their princess; she would lead them when there was no one else left to assume that burden. Yet, this . . .  
  
. . . this was a private grief . . . for her home, for her family . . . and it was for her alone.  
  
Strangely, Han realized that his restlessness had soothed for finding her, but a note of indecision still remained. “I see,” he said, and the words were more softly spoken than any he had ever given her. “I can . . . I can go if you would rather - ”  
  
“ - no,” Leia interrupted him. “No. I . . . I would not mind if you stayed.” From the way she blinked, her diplomatic poise failing her, he could clearly see that she was as taken aback by her saying so as he was. She had spoken without conscious thought; from instinct, by reflex. He felt an echoing such surprise course through his own system . . . but it was not a wholly unwelcome sensation.  
  
Even so, Han took only a step towards her before stopping. He lingered as if balanced on a tightrope, still unsure, even with her invitation having been extended. This was not something he was used to dealing with – indecision of any kind, and now he paused, waiting for her to change her mind. He wanted her to understand that it was okay to change her mind.  
  
But Leia merely bit her lip, and then turned back to the water. He stood still for only a moment longer, and then he followed her. At first she was silent as she sat on her knees on the cool white stone, and, slowly, he folded his legs to sit down beside her. She moved to light another candle; her unsteady fingers had to try twice to spark the match.  
  
Han then watched as, with gentle care, that candle too was sent on a lonely journey to join the others on the river. The tiny flames danced with the yawning shadows before they were swallowed to be little more than beads of light against the gloom. It was a strangely sad sight . . . but, beautiful, in its own way.  
  
“On Alderaan,” Leia finally began her explanation, her voice soft as it filled the silence, “we would do this once a year, every autumn season. All the people from Aldera would go up into the Triplehorn mountains, to a sacred spot on the river . . . There, my parents would lead the ceremony . . . songs were sung to remember our ancestors . . . then, individually, we would light candles for each loved one we had personally lost. This way, as the trees changed and we prepared for winter, we would remember the promise of spring – just as, similarly, we would keep the memories of our departed ones alive, remembering that, like the spring, someday we would all be together again . . . Life is a cycle, and the river would take all of the candles, eventually, down to the sea. Each and every year.”  
  
Leia gave a short exhale of breath, and she held the next candle in her hand without lighting it. “I . . . I would always light one for my mother . . . my birth mother,” she admitted with a small voice. “I felt like she could see it . . . there, wading in the water, feeling the currents on my skin as the candles floated, singing the mourning songs . . . I felt close to her. I only ever had my one candle to light, but there . . . there were others who had so many candles to send to the sea. To think that I had once felt sorry for them . . . I pitied their grief and pain, even as I counted myself blessed to escape their loss. Yet . . . now,” her eyes were far away, glazed and unfocused, as she looked down the silent, foreign river, “I will never be able to light enough candles to remember them all. It's an impossible task.”  
  
She did not cry, not then, but he could see where her eyes were full with moisture and burning. He . . . he'd never seen her cry for Alderaan, he distantly reflected - even when speeding away from the Death Star she had refused to give in to her grief where they could witness it. Rather, she had gone out of her way to comfort the kid for losing Ben Kenobi - never mind that she had untoward billions to mourn herself. Instead, she had thrown herself into her cause, her sense of duty, and mourned what she had lost in the quiet, in-between moments where she could.  
  
Han had admired that strength, then – quietly and from afar. Now . . .  
  
. . . now, he fought the odd urge he had to reach over and take one of her hands in his own. It was a foreign thing, at first, the want to give comfort and support; it was a luxury he had rarely been able to indulge in his life, and when he had it was often to disastrous results. Attachment led to loss, and he had already lost so much in his life . . . too much. It was easier to escape the latter by dodging the former, he had long since found. Yet . . . even so, all he could think of now was that he hated to see her suffer. The urge to help shoulder the burden of her grief was disturbing in its poignancy, so much so that he could not first move or say anything at all.  
  
Yet, what was more than that . . . he had been invited to witness a now endangered tradition. He did not know if she would even welcome his comfort, and so, he curled his fingers into fists and kept to his spot.  
  
Leia fell silent as she lit another candle. The quiet was heavy between them as her admission hovered, thick with mourning and grief, so much so that -  
  
“ - there weren't very many holidays for me growing up.” The words slipped out before he was even consciously aware of his intention to give them. He rarely spoke about himself, he was sure she noticed; he was usually mute to his life before her . . . before Luke . . . before the Rebellion. Yet, for her to give up such a piece of herself – such a personal piece, while she, in turn, knew but little about him or his past . . . It did not seem right, and he would see his debt paid.  
  
Then, what was more than that . . . he found that he simply wanted to tell her. And so, he did.  
  
“I was orphaned young,” Han soldiered through his confession with clipped, short syllables. “I got picked up by a guy named Shrike and joined his crew when I was nine . . . I don't really remember much of my life before that.” No matter how hard he tried, those years were nothing more than mist and shadows to his memory. No matter that, sometimes . . .  
  
Well, anyway.  
  
“Shrike was a real rough sort, your all-around typical lowlife, thief, _scoundrel_ – you would have liked him.” Yet, even his cocked half-grin did not have its usual luster. “There weren't any holidays with Shrike; or, at least, none that I felt like celebrating. Yet, there was a Wookiee who served aboard his flagship as the cook . . . Dewlanna was her name. For some reason she took a liking to me; she took me under her wing, mothered me, taught me Shyriiwook and everything else that passes for my education . . . Though she was in exile from her people, she still followed the old ways, and I . . .”  
  
Han could still remember her days of honor; her days of celebration; her days of mourning. He liked the thick incense of the smoke she burned; even now he could smell the thick, spicy aroma in those memories if he tried. Though he had been unable to replicate her chants with his human vocal-cords, he had identified with her growling songs and the deep, spiritual connection she felt to her forest home – even when they were surrounded by man-made walls of steel in the emptiness of space. He thought that he could understand what Leia missed in the songs of her childhood and the water and the light . . . he understood her grief in what small way he could.  
  
The look Leia turned on him was not pitying, for which he was grateful. But there was a softness to her eyes; understanding burned there. “Where is Dewlanna now?” she asked.  
  
“Dead,” the one word was a short, forced sound from his mouth. _Dead saving my skin_ _when Shrike was finally done putting up with me;_ _when I was more dangerous than I was useful to his bottom line_ , he thought but could not say. He had only been able to force the words out once before, with Chewie. _Like mothers d_ _o_ _for their cubs_ , the Wookiee had been but little surprised to hear, and that was the last time Dewlanna was spoken of but for within his thoughts. He swallowed, and felt his missing rise in his throat like a hot stone.  
  
“Would you . . . like to light a candle for her now?” Leia met his gaze to ask. Her eyes were dark and still shining with repressed tears . . . but there was a gentleness there too, a _warmth_.  
  
Unwittingly, he remembered Leia comforting Luke aboard the _Falcon_ after her people had burned out in a wink. No, he did not want to take the stage from what was rightfully her moment, _her_ loss, and, yet . . .  
  
“It helps,” she whispered – reading his thoughts as easily as if he spoke them aloud. “It helps to share the grief.” And she was sharing her sorrow with him, the thought was a whispered one, not Mothma or Rieekan or _Luke_ or anyone else on the base . . . but with _him_. There was a warmth to be found in the knowledge, heady and comforting as it settled somewhere behind his heart and ignited his bones. It was a dangerous warmth, he knew; it was a warmth that came with the potency of addiction, of _need_.  
  
“I don't know . . . ” even so, he could not help but snort in reply to her words. The sound was rougher than he would have first liked it to be. “I've never seen much proof of that.”  
  
“Well then, I'm waiting for it to,” Leia cracked a sardonic smile – and in the familiar play of words between them, there was a sort of comfort. There was some peace, he thought, born by familiarity.  
  
Deep inside of him, his voice of reason – of caution and sense and _survival_ – was all but screaming at him. It wanted him to stand up and walk away, run _far away;_ it wanted him to take what he was owed and pay what he in turn owed and live to fight another day. And, yet . . .  
  
Han ignored his better sense. He made a square of his jaw, and chose his course. “Alright, then,” he found his voice to say. “I would like that.”  
  
Leia smiled then – a real smile, made all the more brilliant, somehow, by the grief she still carried in her eyes . . . by the missing he could see in her hands as she picked up a candle and matchstick and handed it to him.  
  
“Is there something particular I should be doing?” Han asked as he took the candle.  
  
“Not really,” Leia answered. “Just think about the person you are remembering, and light the candle. Then let your thoughts go as it sails. Usually we'd stand in the water for this, but it's a little too cold for that here.” There was a glittering about her eyes that had little to do with her tears. “Don't worry, I won't make you sing until next year.”  
  
_Next year_ , how easily she was able to throw that out – so much so that he wondered if she even realized her choice of words. She watched as he struck the match, and the scent of the smoke lit his memories of Dewlanna as if on cue – bringing to mind the softness of her fur and the earthiness of her scent . . . things that he had thought to have buried long ago.  
  
Han swallowed, and closed his eyes, doing as Leia instructed – after all, if he was going to do this, then he would do so properly. He fought past his pain and remembered: her paw on his brow as she nursed him in sickness . . . the pride in her voice when he mastered a particularly tricky aspect of her language . . . her joy the one time he had been able to crudely carve a piece of _wroshyr_ wood in a childish gift for her clan day . . .  
  
If he at last remembered those awful, final moments . . . the light leaving her eyes and her last, whispered growl as he dumbly realized _for me, she is dead because of me_ , then that was softened by the glow of the candle, by the strangely soothing motion he found of putting it in its bed of plasteel and setting it on the water to sail. He let the current take his grief, his sorrow, and kept only what he wanted from his memories. It was, he thought a heartbeat later, a tradition he thought to then understand.  
  
Imagining an entire people doing this at once . . . with their mourning songs sung together, bound by the companionship of grief and its resolution . . . yes, this was a custom he could appreciate, and mourn the loss of. The galaxy was a darker place with the light of Alderaan gone, but in its place, remaining . . .  
  
He felt Leia's hand on his shoulder, small but impossibly strong, and found a matching such peace flow his veins. He breathed out one last time, and turned to meet her eyes.  
  
“Now,” she nodded smartly to say. “We drink.”  
  
Han blinked, at first uncomprehending as she pulled out a glass bottle from her collection of supplies – a bottle of some teal colored wine, he could smell as she poured it into the one cup she had brought. She passed him the cup, he noticed, but kept the bottle for herself.  
  
“This is toniray – Alderaanian emerald wine, spiced for the autumn season,” she revealed. At first he blanched to realize that he was drinking something priceless – something that no longer existed in the galaxy but for what stores there were offworld. But he was yet unsure of how to turn her down with any sort of grace. He stopped trying to find his words as she continued by saying:  
  
“We would drink this with cakes of harvest berries as the candles floated away – to celebrate the memories of our loved ones after mourning them. I can't make the cakes with . . . with the ingredients being gone, and the wine is now a precious commodity. But,” she shrugged to say, “we may not be here for the next Day of Remembrances, after all.” For that, her eyes twinkled with a dark humor to say – but it was necessary humor, and that, at least, he knew he could drink to.  
  
“Now _this_ is my kind of holiday,” Han chuckled, and she raised her bottle to him.  
  
“To those who can no longer be with us,” Leia toasted.  
  
“To those who can no longer be with us,” he echoed, and took a sip from his glass. It wasn't bad, the wine – smooth and bold to make up for its fruity undernotes, and the spices were warming on his tongue as they burned down his throat. Yes, he thought, not bad at all.  
  
Leia settled in next to him, her wine in hand as she watched the candles float away. She did not say anything more than that, but then, no more really needed to be said. He felt as if a current had shifted between them, gone with the little memorial boats, but he did not allow his mind to dwell on it then. Instead, he breathed in deeply, and found that he was no longer cold; inside, there was a more worrisome sort of warmth to match, but that too he decided to let be for the time being.  
  
He simply sat with her in silence, and watched the lingering glow of the flames as they floated beyond where they could see.  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
.  
  


_Coda – 60 ABY_

  
After leaving Hoth behind all those years ago, Han Solo never had any desire to step foot on the frozen planet again. _Good, let the Imperials have it_ , the part of his mind that was not consumed with _survive_ and _away_ had thought, and that had been the end of that. Yet, now . . .  
  
He was much older than he had been in the waxing days of the Rebellion, older in both mind and body. His bones were heavy, ungainly things in his limbs, and he had too many aches and pains from too many closed calls survived to mention. His eyesight was nowhere near what it used to be, though he was still slow to accept his need for corrective aides - it was already bad enough that he had finally submitted to using a walking stick, after all. He'd finally said _no_ to the healers attempting to improve his spine and hips and knees through surgery - he was done poking and prodding his body to work as that of a much younger man's; he was simply _old,_ and he accepted it.  
  
Though his face was heavily lined with age, it still wasn't too bad a face, he thought with no small amount of pride. His hair had turned a silvery shade of steel grey years ago, though he considered himself lucky to have kept such a relatively full head of it. Leia, though she had teased him, had been pleased, as well, he suspected. It was something he could understand in his turn: the years may have taken the rich color of her hair and the youthful vitality of her skin, but time had failed to dull the spark in her eyes or cool the warmth of her spirit. He had been honored to grow old with her; there was a beauty to be found in the waning of their days.  
  
_. . . Leia._  
  
Four months gone, and even a passing memory of his wife was enough to clench a painful fist about his heart. He felt as if the planet's gravity was bearing down on him, making it impossible to move . . . impossible to _breathe_. He could feel his breath shudder in his lungs as he consciously forced himself to take in air for one heartbeat . . . two . . . and then three, before his body remembered the necessary mechanics of _living_ and carried on by itself.  
  
Such a routine was becoming disturbingly habitual as of late . . . disturbingly rote. He was not blind to the undercurrent of worry in his brother-in-law's eyes, the gentle sympathy of: _I understand what you are going through, Han, more so than words can say . . ._ nor was he ignorant of the way his daughter watched him as if he was a chrono on a hand-grenade, ticking steadily down towards zero. He did not want to die, he had assured Jaina once and only once – and he truly didn't, not yet. But, at the same time, he was not completely adverse to the peace that he knew he would find when his time came. He was simply accepting of his days.  
  
Until then, however, he let Jaina help him through the icy pathways, down into the subterranean tunnels beneath the abandoned ruins of the Echo Base. A team had already been down to secure the site and make sure that the tunnels were still passable beforehand – one of the perks of being the ruling lady of the Fel Imperium was to have such resources at her disposal, after all, Jaina had flashed a grin that was all _him_ to say. As ever, he had to give a roll of his eyes in response. There were times when he could no longer recognize the shape of the galaxy without bemusement, after all – a galaxy where his daughter was heralded as _Empress_ and the Imperial banner was a force for good . . . It was but little consolation that Jagged Fel had grudgingly grown on him over the years . . . slowly grown, at the very least, like a Veshok tree in the shade kind of slow. But he did approve of the man, and his daughter was happy; for him, that was enough.  
  
“Is this the place, dad?” Jaina's voice drew him from his thoughts.  
  
Han looked up as they passed from a durasteel bridge into another icy chamber. This time, he recognized the high vaulted ceilings of the cavern and the familiar babble of the river. His memories ghosted across his consciousness, and he had to close his eyes against the almost tangible familiarity of the sensation. In answer, he set his jaw, and nodded once. He could not yet find his voice.  
  
Jaina understood, and with a gesture she motioned Allana forth down the path. The girl, dressed in a familiar ensemble of dark green scaled armor and indigo Hapan silks, brushed her hand against his arm as she passed in a gesture of loving support. She walked to the waterside, and with a lithe sort of grace she knelt down to unpack the bag slung over her shoulder. Wax candle globes, glittering true-glass saucers for them to sail in, rather than the plasteel the Rebellion had been able to spare so long ago, and match-sticks – she made sure that all were accounted for, and spread them out for their use.  
  
The young woman – and Force, but when had the little girl toddling about the _Falcon_ become such a woman? - looked back at him, concern now a familiar glow in the grey of her eyes. She had observed the Day of Remembrances with them ever since Leia and he had decided to raise their granddaughter as their own, and the routine was by then a familiar one to her. Jaina too knew the old ways of her mother's people, though that part of her heritage was not something she had readily identified with until later in life . . . when she had candles of her own to light rather than her parents' grief to observe and muddle through. Now, no matter what, she made time from her duties on Bastion to join them each and every year. Usually, her husband and children also joined them, but, this time . . .  
  
. . . this time, it was just them. This year, it could only be them.  
  
Han slowly – oh so slowly – allowed Jaina to help him sit down by the waterside. He took in a deep breath when he was safely on the ground, and briefly wondered how he was going to get back up later. He shook his head, and simply decided to tackle one hurdle at a time.  
  
Instead, he focused on recovering his breath as Jaina took her place next to him. Her Empress' ensemble – robes, often in shades of white to honor her mother, mixed with the crinkled leather the Imperial Knights favored – had been traded for a sensible white snowsuit, not quite unlike what Leia had worn while the Rebellion was stationed on Hoth. Even with the growing streaks of grey in her dark hair and the laugh lines framing her eyes, she looked so much like her mother that it brought a pang to his heart to see. It was a good pain, Han thought . . . but a pain nonetheless.  
  
At last, he took in a deep breath, and picked up his first candle.  
  
When she saw that he was ready, Allana started to hum under her breath, the same songs from Alderaan that Leia would always sing. Distantly, he could hear Jaina echoing her niece’s song as she picked up a candle of her own. She had inherited her mother's warm, soothing voice, so much so that Han had always preferred listening to his ladies, rather than joining in on the song himself. _His ladies_ , the thought brought another pang rupturing through him – as if his grief was still moment's new, rather than some months old.  
  
As always, he lit a candle for Dewlanna first. Next was one for Chewie, just after. As ever, the grief of that loss was a ghosting thing against his spirit, never wholly healed.  
  
After those first two candles sailed, he heard Jaina whisper her twin's name in her song, and she and Allana lit that candle together. As ever, the girl was solemn for the father she had barely known, and the grief of lost chances bloomed as a redness in her eyes. _Jacen_ , Han watched that small flame flicker, a father's old sorrow in his heart for the loss, for the grief of: _if I had protected my boy better, could I have saved him from his path?_ But that too was an old pain, one that he was well accustomed to accepting, and breathing in spite of. He breathed in with his mourning, and let it go with his exhale.  
  
Anakin was next for him . . . As ever, his son's loss was an impossibly bright light that had been snuffed out before its time. He lit the candle, and then handed it to Jaina. She set it to sail with soft, reverent hands, whispering for her baby brother in her song with a throaty note of missing. Allana merely watched her aunt, and bowed her head in respect for the uncle she never had a chance to know.  
  
Then, where his wife could not, Han lit one for Padmé Amidala . . . for Bail and Breha Organa too - all souls who had given him the treasure he had found in his wife, and, through her, untoward blessings as a father and a grandfather.  
  
He was slower to light a flame for Anakin Skywalker, but he did . . . The first year Leia had done so, right after she had made peace with her father's spirit and shortly before their own Anakin was born, she had wept openly to do so. Years of hatred and resentment and lost opportunities struggled to heal within her, and Han had merely held his wife through the maelstrom of her grief until it passed. Every year since then, she had lit a candle for the man her father _was_ , and sent it off to sail with the memory she had of her birth-mother.  
  
This year, that burden and honor fell to him to carry out. Someday, Han knew that his daughter and granddaughter would continue that tradition, even after he was gone – remembering what was bright and worthy about their heritage rather than dark and shadowed.  
  
Next, it was with a pang that he lit a candle for his sister-in-law, remembering Mara Jade's glittering green eyes and firecracker spirit. That was another failure he felt responsible for, and he closed his eyes in a silent prayer to the Force, hoping that she rested in peace from her too soon being taken from them. He hoped that she had been there to welcome his wife, at the very least. Alongside her parents and sister-in-law and sons, Leia's spirit would be kept in good company until he could join her. It was a small comfort, but one that fortified him, nonetheless.  
  
For some time, they continued onwards like that: remembering old friends and allies and loved ones, all lost to the dark days they had lived through alongside those sunny and bright. For so many years, he had fought by his wife's side in order to shape a better future for the galaxy, and that fight now belonged to the next generation to wage. With that knowledge there was heaviness and responsibility, but also peace and acceptance. He could picture no better hands to carry on the torch of their heritage, and he liked to imagine that the galaxy was a better place for his gifting such a light to it.  
  
Yet, even so . . . when it came time to light that last candle, he stalled . . . His hands would not obey the commands of his mind, it seemed, and he faltered. He simply held the match loosely with his fingertips and stared at the waiting wick. He could not, he balked at the implications of the task . . . he did not think that he could . . .  
  
Sensing his hesitation, and no doubt rightly interpreting the raw grief on his face, he could feel his daughter press in closer to him. Jaina's hand was soft as it found his shoulder, resolute in its implication of affection and shared strength. Allana too rested a hand on his opposite shoulder, and he breathed in deeply through the warmth they both pushed towards him – a warmth that was made all the more tangible through their own shared grief. He was canny enough, after so many years, to recognize a Jedi's calming influence, but he could not bring himself to object . . . not this time . . . Instead he welcomed it, and enjoyed their gift of solace for what it was.  
  
The flame, when he finally struck it, seemed too small to encompass all that his wife had been . . . all that she truly _was_ . . . much too small indeed.  
  
“I . . . ” when he tried to speak, Han found his voice rough to his use. “I never thought that I would light one of these for her . . . I never thought that she would leave me first.”  
  
_Her heart_ , he had been stunned when Cilghal had explained. Of course it was her heart; it had always beat for too many, for far too long. Her heart had carried her through such an outpouring of empathy and determination for as long as it could . . . and then it could simply handle the strain of such living no more.  
  
Han felt Jaina's hand tighten over her shoulder, with she being no stranger to the ways of death and loss. Allana, still so young, rested her head against his arm as she liked to do when she was smaller. He could feel her familiar warmth, and heard her attempts to muffle her sniffling. She too cried for the grandmother who was more her mother, and he reflexively moved his arm so that he could cradle her about her shoulders instead. He then shifted so that he could do the same for Jaina, holding both of his girls close through the rising swell of their emotions.  
  
In giving comfort, just as Leia had promised all of those years ago, he felt some of his own grief bleed away. Eventually, he felt strong enough to place the candle on the river, and watch as it floated away.  
  
They sat there, wrapped together in silence, for a long, long time. Jaina said nothing, she only continued to hum as Allana's tears quieted and she too offered her voice in a small melody of sound. Their grief was still poignant, but it had lost its desperate edge as Jaina turned to Allana's pack to bring out a bottle of emerald wine. Though the re-engineered grapes were not comparable to the vintage Han remembered from Alderaan itself, the replication was passable enough, and it would do.  
  
“Well, it's not Corellian ale,” Jaina quipped with a shrug as she poured and passed them all an overly generous cup, “but I think we could all use this right about now.”  
  
In that, his daughter's personality was all too often like looking in a mirror. Jaina gave a slanted grin, catching the stray thought from his mind, and Han was powerless to return it. “It's always good to know that you were raised right, kid,” he approved, tipping his cup towards her.  
  
At that, even Allana could not help but softly snort in amusement. Pulling slightly away from him, she raised her glass, and waited for them to do the same. “To those who can no longer be with us,” she toasted, her voice grave.  
  
“To those who can no longer be with us,” Jaina echoed, looking up from her wine to meet his eyes.  
  
“To those who can no longer be with us,” Han agreed, and with a final salute, he tipped his wine back and drank.  
  
Beyond them, the flames continued to sail off into the shadows of the winter night, while at his shoulder, he thought to feel the touch of a familiar presence. There was no physical form . . . nothing his eyes could see or his ears could hear, and yet, he thought he knew . . .  
  
“Until we meet again,” Han concluded, and watched that one, last candle as it winked away in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Because _Star Wars_ was my very first fandom, and the cornerstone of my childhood, just as the EU was the very first series of 'grown-up' novels I read, and thus, the vehicle by which I began my literary journey. Growing up, Princess Leia was - _is_ \- my female hero in a world that so often lacks such characters in mainstream entertainment, and Carrie Fisher is still a woman I respect and admire more than words can say. So, this piece was written for solely cathartic purposes . . . I hope that it brings a matching such peace to anyone who reads it. :)
> 
> Rest in Peace, Carrie Fisher. You will always be our Princess.


End file.
